


Tacitus

by ButterflyGhost



Series: due South Wizard!Verse [35]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, due South
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are left unspoken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sub Silentio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hospital visit.

When they finally allow me to see Fraser he's looking a hell of a lot better than I expected. Still real skinny, for Fraser I mean. The guy's seriously built, or used to be. But, you know, he looks like he's getting better. I've managed to sneak in food past the nurses, though I reckon they might have guessed. Baloney sandwiches with mustard and lettuce, and hamburgers, and French fries. Just in case, you know? Though I didn't really know what to expect. I dunno if it's me or the food, but he brightens up when he sees me. A proper smile. He's not done a lot of that recently. Hey, maybe being shot in the lung has its upside...

Shit, cop humour, it's like a knee-jerk thing. Crap, he scared the crap out of me, and here he is, sitting pretty as you please, grinning like a cat that got the cream.

“Ray,” he says, and something kinda stutters in my head. Like, there's something I should remember. I remember standing in the rain, and... Stella. I'm gone muddled in the head. How can I be mixing Fraser up with Stella? It's just because... I haven't seen her in so long, and then I thought I wasn't gonna see him again, 'cause, honest to God, I thought he was gonna die. And you know, for some reason I kept thinking it was my fault. Like maybe I'd shot him or something. 

Fuck, I'm messed up. I just missed 'em both, Stella and Fraser. It's all right to love your friend, isn't it? I feel myself going red, and he's not blind, he's gotta see that.

“Jeez,” I say, trying to brush it off, “it's hot in here. What they trying to do, grow tomatoes out your ears?”

He laughs, and it's just a shade less happy, then he pushes himself up against his pillows. I wasn't expecting him to be sitting up. “Is that food you're smuggling in,” he asks, pointing at the paper bag in my arms. I cheer up. Yeah, I'm good for something. I plonk the bag on the side table, and he snatches it, looking like Dief does when he's trolling for donuts. 

“Yeah,” I say, “I thought if you didn't eat it, I would.”

“I apologise sincerely, Ray, but I suspect the only thing you'll be eating is my jello.” He gives the yellow wobbly glob a baleful look, then gleefully starts munching a sandwich.

“Fuckin' hell, Frase, have they not been feeding you or something?”

“Not like this.” He closes his eyes, and actually goes, “yum,” and hey, that makes me glad. 'Cause he's happy. I wanna see if I can make him chuckle some more, so I take up that little plastic hospital spoon, and dig into the yellow blobby thing. 

“Awh yuck,” I say, “it tastes like what it looks like. Snot.”

He laughs, and sprays crumbs in my face.

Yeah. He's on the mend.  
…  
…  
Ray's looking well, and it's a relief to me that he seems to remember none of it. Turnbull came by last week, to tell me that my Ray had been briefed on the “terrorist attack” at the zoo. It appears that his last memory of that day is picking me up for work in the morning, and driving me to the station. I'm glad. It's a good memory. Yes, I was perhaps artificially cheerful from Victoria's ministrations of the night before... and I'm well aware that it wasn't magic, or rather, that it wasn't wizard magic. But I know now that it wasn't perfectly real. Not like this. Not like Ray sitting next to me, snaffling French fries and trying to make me laugh.

Finally we've made our way through the food, and I did in fact eat most of it. It's astonishing how hungry a man can get. 

He sits back with a sigh, and sticks his feet up on my bed. If the nurses come in they will not be happy. Never mind, I think. It's simply a pleasure to have him so familiar, and so close.

“Hey, Frase,” he says, out of the blue, “I'm sorry about Victoria.”

“I'm not,” I say curtly, though, in spite of everything, it is something of a lie.

He blinks. I realise that he wasn't expecting that. Of course, the last time he remembers seeing me with Victoria we were kissing at the door of the apartment, and she was patting me on the bottom as I headed for the stairs. I blush, and turn my head away. He catches it, and clears his throat. Takes his feet off the bed, sits forward. Goes grave, still. Oh dear, I think. He's going to commiserate. I know he means well, but... I close my eyes.

“Frase, I know she hurt you, dumping you like that. I mean, you just got shot, and she ups and disappears. But...” his voice trails away, and I wonder if, for even an instant, he remembers that moment at the zoo. That poignant moment in each other's arms, when, however briefly, the rain washed all our pain away.

No. He doesn't remember that. How could he? I wouldn't want him to. He's still in love with Stella. I open my eyes and smile at him. It feels bleak on my face, and I can tell from his expression that he doesn't believe it. “Don't worry, Ray,” I say. “I know that I am better off without her.”

“Yeah,” he looks relieved. “Yeah, Buddy, you are.”

I close my eyes again. The food has made me sleepy. 

“I'll... come again, okay? Tomorrow, same time?”

I open my eyes, suddenly mischievous. He's standing at the door, about to leave. “Bring food,” I tell him. 

“Yeah,” he says, and laughs. Then, unexpectedly, he steps back up to the bed, leans down, and kisses me on the cheek. I see it in his eyes, a moment's panic. He wasn't expecting it either. It's not a romantic kiss, but it lingers just a moment too long to be a brotherly kiss. I yearn to kiss him back, to hook my hand around his head, and pull his lips to my mouth. But, I can't make him remember, and I can't take Stella from him. Even though they don't have each other. He still has the memory of her, and he would feel like a betrayer. I know too well what it is to love two people at the same time, and to feel a traitor to both. I won't do that to my... to my friend.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, backing off, and putting his hands up in the air, in a gesture of comedy surrender. “I didn't mean to go all cool Italian gangster on you. I've been hanging around Vecchio too long.”

“It's okay, Ray,” I tell him, to relieve the tension. “I'm Canadian, I'm used to a manly kiss.”

He looks at me like he's not sure how to take that, and I barely manage to keep a straight face. He shakes his head and grins. “You're a freak,” he tells me, then tousles my hair. “See ya tomorrow.”

And he's gone.


	2. Ad Serviendum ac Protegendum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fraser discovers that he can still serve and protect.

In the end I left the hospital early. 

“You should wait till the doctor gets here,” Nurse Smith says, and hovers looking anxious as I pack my belongings. “That's going to be too heavy for you, really, you're not ready to leave yet. At the very least you should wait and call a friend.”

I think of calling Ray, and smile, but let the smile fade. I am about to return to my apartment for the first time since Victoria left, and while I know that Mrs Gómez has been in and cleaned it for me, I still feel raw from the whole experience. Ray Vecchio helped me, perhaps more than he will ever know, and I can look now at these things without crumbling, but the hurt, for all that I can put it in perspective, will always be there. I think of my apartment, and know that I need to return by myself, and make that space my own.

“Thank you kindly,” I tell her, “but I'm quite better. And I really must be going. I have a job to return to.”

“You're a Mountie, aren't you?” She drops her lashes, and gives a sideways, and quite deliberately flirtatious look. I scratch the back of my head, embarrassed. It dawns on me that this woman has been giving me bed baths, and seen every scar on me, that she was involved in my care when I first came in, perhaps inserted catheters, drew blood. I certainly remember her wiping me when I soiled myself. I wish she wouldn't look at me like that.

“Yes,” I reply, and clear my throat. “Yes, I'm a Mountie.”

“What's a Mountie doing in Chicago, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Well, I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father,” I say, and it's like I'm hearing somebody else utter this formal phrase, “and for reasons which don't need exploring at this juncture I have remained, attached as a liaison officer at the Canadian Consulate.”

“Oh,” she says, and blinks. I think, perhaps, it was not the sort of answer she was expecting. It seems to have flustered her, and stopped her in her tracks. 

“Thank you for all your care,” I tell her, and hoist my bag over my shoulder. She is in fact right that it's heavy... or rather that I am weak, because this would never have been heavy before. But I am not about to let that show. I simply cannot lie around in hospital any more while my colleagues and compatriots fight a war in my absence. I've already been absent too long. As Ray Vecchio said, they need all the soldiers they can get.

“I was going to ask,” she says, blurting it out, rather as though she were suddenly overcome with nerves, “now that you're no longer a patient it would be okay... would you like to meet up for drinks sometime?”

I smile at her, feel myself tugging my collar. Not my uniform collar, my shirt collar. But it's still suddenly too tight and constrictive. “Thank you kindly,” I say again, aware that formalism is returning to my speech patterns as I return to myself, “but I don't drink.”

She blushes, and I feel sorry for her, but do nothing more than smile, and bid her good day. 

After I have signed the release forms, including accepting all liability for my apparently foolish decision to sign myself out, I make my way to the taxi ranks. I haven't ordered one, but there should be one along soon. I consider whether or not I should simply apparate in, but I want, for a little while longer, to live in a non magical world. A world without a war. 

Of course, the world is full of wars. The muggles are always at war with one another, and every human being walking on the planet is at war with themselves. I manage to get a taxi eventually, after ensuring that the most needy in the queue are seated ahead of me. Finally a taxi arrives, and I am opening the back door when a business man comes up behind me, and pushes me aggressively.

“You cut in line, I saw it first.” 

I turn and look at him. One more bully, in a world full of bullies. His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. I don't know what he saw in my face, but I let him deal with it. I slide into the back of the taxi, and shut the door, wearily. 

“Two Two One, East Racine,” I tell the taxi driver. I feel like I should be more communicative... I like listening to people and finding out about their lives. But I'm tired, I'm not looking forward to my homecoming, and the nurse was actually right. My chest is aching, and the doctors would have kept me in for another week, if they'd had their way.

“East Racine,” the taxi driver says, “you'll have to pay me danger money,” he laughs.

Ah, I think, he's a talker. I don't want to be rude, so I smile, and ask him, “how long have you been driving taxis?” It's a stock question which, it seems, is compulsory under these circumstances. He replies, as expected, with enthusiasm, and embarks on the story of his life. This isn't too bad. He doesn't want conversation, just to be heard. I relax, and listen, and give him little prompts to show that I'm interested. 

When we arrive outside my apartment I check that I have in fact remembered American, rather than Canadian money, and smile. “Here,” I tell him. “Danger money included.” He looks surprised, and tries to give me some back. 

“I was joking,” he says.

“I enjoyed the conversation,” I reply, and stand, tap the roof so that he knows to drive on. It's true, for what it's worth. I did enjoy listening to the details of a muggle life. Balancing late night shifts with being a single parent, how much he missed his wife, what he wished for his daughter, how he feared for his son. It sounded more real to me than magic, and I envied him his children, his taxi, his valid concerns.

Turning I see the apartment which I had shared with Victoria for six weeks. I make to go to the door, then realise that I am bound to run into one of my neighbours. Not yet, I think. I can face their concern, but not yet. I walk around the building to the fire exit, and climb it, pressing my hand to my side at the exertion. 'Really,' I hear Ellen in my imagination, 'what would be so wrong with apparating? Why do you have to make everything so difficult?' Oh please, I think, just leave me alone. It's up to me how and when I use magic, isn't it?

Dear me. I finally stand outside my apartment window. I'm having the same arguments with Ellen in my head now that I did when I was a teenager. At some point I'm going to have to grow up.

And enter my apartment.

I sigh, and push up the window. Step in, and...

“Freeze!”

I jerk, straighten, and put my hands in the air, right hand curled over the wand in my sleeve in case I should need it.

Hang on... the voice was a kid. The voice was...

“Willie,” I say sternly. “What have I told you about guns?”

“Sorry Fraser,” he says, “it's only a pretend gun, I thought you were breaking into the apartment.”

“I was breaking into the apartment. So, apparently, have you.”

“Oh yeah,” he looks shifty. 

Oof. A huge, hairy ball of canine affection barrels into me, and knocks me back against the wall. Hurts. Doesn't matter. 

“Dief,” I say, and he's so far up on his back legs that his head is on my shoulder. I suppose the expression on my face is one that Ray would describe as sappy, but I don't care, as I kiss Dief and he slobbers all over me. My homecoming isn't nearly so bad as I had expected. I knew, of course, that Willie had been looking after Dief for me, and it is an unexpected pleasure to see them both so soon.

Finally Dief settles, and I make my way to a chair, and sit, heavily, down, finally letting my backpack drop. Dief is by my side, and has his head settled on my lap, and my hand keeps tracing and knuckling his brow. His tail keeps up a rhythmic thumping, and I'm still smiling. I shouldn't be.

“Willie,” I say, becoming serious, “sit down.”

Willie sits down opposite me, looking anxious. “Sorry about breaking into your apartment, Fraser...”

“I'm not concerned about that,” I say, though actually, I am worried about him. “You're welcome to visit here any time, you know that.” He looks surprised, as though he imagined I was going to arrest him for burglary. “This pretend gun of yours. Do you realise how dangerous that is?”

“It's not dangerous, I can't shoot anyone with it.”

“Yes, but Willie,” I gaze at him hard, hoping that he'll understand what I'm saying. “Just because you can't shoot somebody doesn't mean that they won't shoot you, if they think you're armed.”

He looks at me, and I suddenly realise that his lip is trembling.

“What's wrong, Son,” I ask, alarmed for him. 

“It's just there was this...”

“Come on, tell me...”

“The day you were shot, there was this thunder storm. And, I'm not scared of thunder, you know? But this one was... well... it was horrible. And then Dief turned up, and I was so scared that I...” He looks away, obviously ashamed. “You'll think that I'm a baby.”

“No, no Willie, I won't think that. It was a bad day. There were a lot of bad things that happened, maybe it was just something in the air.”

“You mean like that gas or whatever it was from the terrorist attack might have spread?”

I pause. There had been a sharp spike in accidents, psychosis, murders and violence amongst the muggle population on that day, enough that their papers were already speculating a connection to the the attack on the zoo. “Yes, Willie,” I say, calmly. “It's a possibility.”

His whole body radiates relief. “That's better then,” he says, “I thought I'd gone crazy.” He rubs his nose, realises I'm looking, and stops before he picks it. “I hid under the bed with Dief,” he admits, “and when I got out, my sister was really, really angry with me, I thought she'd gone a bit... you know...” He clears his throat. “So I came here.”

“And other than that, have you been okay?”

“Yeah, you'd be proud of me,” he says, “I've been going to school, I've been walking Dief...”

“How have you been feeding yourself? I know Ray's been paying you for looking after Dief, but has it been enough?”

“Yeah, it's been okay. Your neighbours are cool. A few of them have let me babysit, and Mrs Gómez always makes too much to eat, she says, so she's been bringing round food.” He looks at my fridge, and grins. “I think there's casserole in there.”

“So... you're all right,” I ask again, trying to reassure myself. He looks healthy, and he's a very self reliant child, but still...

“Yeah, it's been okay.” His face falls. “My math teacher hates me,” he admits.

“Do you need help with your homework?”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn't think you'd ever ask.” He goes to my bookshelves, and pulls out some text books. I see he's made himself very much at home, and I'm glad that, although I've not been well enough to look after him I was able, at the very least, to provide him with a haven for a little while. It pains me to think that it is only temporary. I'm in a war. Willie doesn't need me, he needs his real life. He has a family of his own. I am sure that his sister has long returned to her normal affectionate, if somewhat incompetent, self.

He'll have to go home.

For now, though, I help him with his homework.

Eventually, after we have finished Mrs Gómez's excellent casserole, I broach the subject of where he is going to live.

“Can't I stay here with you, Fraser?”

“I'm sorry,” I say, and truly I am, “but it really isn't appropriate for a young man like you to be staying with... well, an older man.”

“You're not a paedo,” he snorts, “people would be stupid to think that.”

“Unfortunately, people are stupid, at least some of the time. Besides,” I smile at him, “I'm a police officer, it's not the safest of lifestyles.” I pat my chest on the sore side. “I have the bullet scar to show it. And you said yourself, the first time you saw where I lived, that crack dealers are afraid to come here.”

“Not since you turned up,” he says.

I laugh. “Oh dear, not the most ringing endorsement I've ever received. I made the neighbourhood safe for crack dealers to move in.”

“That's not what I meant,” he says, though he's laughing too. “I just mean it's safer here. People look out for each other more.”

“I'm glad, but... Desiree...”

He flinches at the name of his sister.

“She does love you, you know.”

“Yeah, but you should have seen her, I was scared...”

“Maybe she was being influenced by the same thing that scared you and Dief.”

“Oh,” he says, and blinks. “I didn't think of that.” He starts to look hopeful. “Do you think she'll want me back?”

“I think we should go see her, and find out.”

And so, I find myself standing outside another apartment door, in another run down muggle neighbourhood, and suddenly Willie's holding my hand, like the little boy he really is, behind all that cocky attitude and cheek. I squeeze his hand reassuringly, and knock on the door.

It opens, and Desiree is there. When she sees me her face freezes for an instant, and I see her thinking, the law is at the door, something terrible has happened... then she sees, hiding behind me, Willie. Her whole face floods with relief, and she drops into a crouch, holds open her arms. “Willie,” she chokes out, and starts crying. I move back, and allow Willie to step into her embrace. He looks up at me, and he's crying too.

“Thanks, Fraser,” he says.

“Thank you, Willie, for looking after Dief.”

Desiree just looks at me, and smiles through her tears.

So much pain, I thought, flooding out on so many people, from Victoria's acts. This little family, what is left of it, nearly destroyed by her.

Well, I fixed one more thing, I suppose.

I drop a hand on Willie's shoulder, and smile back down at him. “I'll see you soon, Son. Everything is going to be all right.”

He believes me, and for a minute I believe it myself.

“Now, I've really got to go back home,” I say, and take my leave.

This time, I enter my apartment by the front door, and manage the good wishes of my neighbours. Finally, when I am sitting with Dief, drinking bark tea, and thinking of ways to make algebra more interesting for Willie, it hits me. This space is my own again. And I didn't need to be alone for that to happen. I simply needed to allow life to happen. The little details of life.

I think again of the muggle taxi driver, and his family, and offer up a thought for them, to whatever benevolence might be hiding in the cosmos, somewhere behind the mess of it all. 

And I think of the war, invisible to so many, yet affecting us all, and I think of Willie and his sister, and am glad. Glad that, although I can never be what I want to be, or with whom I want to be, I am still able to serve and protect.

Tomorrow morning I will go in to the Two Seven, and I will see Ray again, my Ray. And I will protect him too. As he tried to protect me, on the day of the storm. Putting his unarmed self between me and the enemy. And if I cannot hold him, and if he cannot hold me, I can live with that. If I can make things right for Willie, perhaps it's not too much to hope that I can make things right for Ray. That I can protect him, and love him still, somehow. Love him in my secret places, and keep the night at bay.


	3. Verus Amicus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kowalski is under investigation, and Welsh tries to protect him.

The morning of Fraser's return two reports came across Welsh's desk. Reports that he had to read twice in order to take in their full ramifications. He raised his eyes to heaven, and shoved his chair back, roughly, so that it made a scraping squeal against the wooden floor. As usual the sound irritated him even further. It was about time he had a decent office. As it was, it was full of clutter, and didn't even have a carpet. 

If he hadn't been a squib he'd have been promoted long ago, he thought, scowling as he made his way across the bullpen to where Fraser was sitting with Kowalski. Not that he minded Fraser, not really. He wasn't one of those wizards who looked down on squibs. But still, at times like this he found himself resenting the whole set up. He couldn't live like a muggle, and the wizards didn't want him. This damned war of theirs... It just showed up everything that stank about the magical world. Politics. Whoever was in charge, there would always be those who despised the likes of him. 

“Constable,” he barked rather louder than he'd intended. He realised that in the wizarding community he was supposed to defer to Fraser, but dammit, this was his station, and at least the muggles should believe he was in charge. “My office, now.”

Fraser stood to follow him, and Ray got to his feet. “Not you, Kowalski,” Welsh said, somewhat more gently. Poor guy, he thought. The whole world's about to fall on his head.

Once they were shut in the office Welsh sighed, and sat down behind his desk. Fraser remained standing, hands behind his back, almost as though he was a normal policeman waiting on instructions from a superior. Welsh leaned forward, and rested his chin on his fist. Looked at the Mountie... no, the Auror, intently. 

Fraser had been a bit strange, recently. There had been some talk of him being under some kind of enchantment, or curse, but he certainly seemed to be looking better. And Vecchio had vouched for him. Well, he supposed it would have to do. Fraser, of all the wizards he knew, was the one most likely to look out for Kowalski. He wasn't sure if the rumours about them were true, but at the very least the two men were best of friends. 

“Okay, I don't know how to tell you this, but Internal Affairs are all over Kowalski for shooting you.”

Fraser blinked. “Oh,” he said, and somehow managed to stand even more rigidly to attention. “How did they come to that conclusion?”

“How do you think?” Welsh sat back with a huff. “The normal way. The muggle way. They checked the bullet with ballistics, and it came from Kowalski's gun.”

“Oh,” Fraser said again, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Is there any truth in this?”

“Ray didn't shoot me,” Fraser stated, clearly.

“Really?” Welsh narrowed his eyes, and peered intently. He might not be a wizard, and he might not be able to read minds, but he had been a cop long enough to know when someone was hiding something. “What about his gun?”

“Sir, I was not in the best position to ascertain exactly what was happening.”

“Ah. So, how can you know that Detective Kowalski didn't shoot you?” He tried not to sound smug. It wasn't very often he got one over on a wizard. The Constable said nothing, and he nodded, curtly. “Sit down, Constable. There's more.”

Fraser sat, gingerly, and rested his hands on his knees. Welsh registered the posture. Fingers clinging tightly to the trousers, so much so that the knuckles were white.

“Yes, Sir?” 

Who'd have thought it, Welsh nearly smiled, a wizard nervous of a squib? No sooner was the thought out than he was chastising himself for his lack of charity. Constable Fraser had always been respectful to him, had never shown any prejudice. Even in recent weeks, when he was clearly dealing with personal crap, and snapping at everyone, he hadn't treated Welsh any differently from anyone else. Equal opportunity, if he was being polite or obnoxious.

Right now he was neither. Right now, he just looked nervous.

“After the... well... the incident.” Welsh cleared his throat. The memory of the Black Mark, and all the horrors that followed with it came clearly to his mind again. “After the incident, Ray was brought into the hospital amnesiac. I take it he was obliviated again?”

“Yes, Sir, apparently so.”

“It seems that an Auror was sent to question him.”

At that Fraser's alarm became palpable on his face. “What was said? Who was the Auror?”

“She is only referred to as 'Auror' in the report,” Welsh looked at it, scornfully. “Everything's got to be so hush hush all the time...” He trailed off. Fraser might be an odd wizard, seemingly sympathetic, but he was a wizard nonetheless. In the current climate he couldn't be too careful about who he complained to. Even such a seemingly decent wizard as Fraser. “I'm sorry,” he said, “it's just a bit... worrying. That's all.”

“They haven't discovered Ray's status, have they?”

“No, no. That's something to be grateful for.”

“Indeed.”

“But you know, any more incidents with him, they're gonna start asking questions. And Constable?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“All this obliviating, is it really going to help him?”

“It keeps him safe, Sir, keeps him out of the war.”

“Don't kid yourself,” Welsh sounded bitter, even to himself. “None of us are out of this war. Kowalski's smart. Not book smart, not wizard smart, but smart all the same. And the smart ones start remembering. He's gonna start remembering. You know yourself that goes two ways. Either he'll work it out, and start hating you guys... wizards I mean... for lobotomising him every ten minutes, or he might just crack up. And I'm guessing you don't want either.”

Fraser looked down at his hands, still clasped over his knees, and stiffened. Welsh watched closely, as the Constable's mouth thinned, and his adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat. It hit him that the man had lost a lot of weight. He was fairly sure that his voice box had never been so prominent, that his uniform had never seemed to hang loose on him before. The Mountie was looking fragile. It struck Welsh for a moment that perhaps he had come back to work too soon, then he dismissed it. He'd been allowed out of hospital, and who was he to second guess the doctors?

“Do you understand what I'm saying, Constable?”

“Yes, Sir. I do.”

“I want you to sort this out somehow. I don't want a good cop like Kowalski being obliviated into a nervous breakdown, and I don't want a good wizard being stripped of his birthright.”

That's it, Welsh thought, that's what I'm trying to say. “I know what it's like living in the magical world with no magic. It's bad, but at least I'm not the only one. Well, imagine if you were Kowalski, living in the muggle world with what he's got. And your best friend lying to you every day. When he finds out, when it really settles in what you people have been doing to him, he's going to have no world he's at home in. Not muggle, not wizard. Not even squib. It's up to you. He needs to have at least one friend he knows won't lie to him. I don't know how many lies you've had to tell him, but the war is closing in, and he's gonna be part of it whether he wants to or not. Don't you think he deserves at least one true friend, someone he can trust?”

“Yes, Sir.” Fraser's voice was faint. He was still looking at the back of his hands as though he was attempting to commit them to memory. 

“Good. You understand. Well then. I'm leaving it up to you. I don't care how you do it, and I don't care if it gets you, or me, into trouble. Just... make it right.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Oh yes, and this other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Good God, you wizards, you always forget about the rest of the world. The bullet you jackass.” Welsh heard his aggression, but for once was too pissed to bury it. “I know it's very muggle, but don't you think you guys should make the bullet disappear? Before Internal Affairs decide he's an amnesiac lunatic cop and put him in prison or a mental institution?”

“Yes, Sir. I'll make sure it's taken care of.”

“Good. Good.” Welsh looked at the table, then pulled some papers toward himself, in an effort to look busy. “All right then. Well, I suppose you'd better get back to work then.”

“Yes, Sir.” Fraser rose, turned smartly, and left the room.

Welsh shook his head at the departing back. Fraser really was an odd wizard. Perhaps it was a Canada thing, he thought, considering Turnbull. 

Well, he thought. He might be odd, but at least he would look after Kowalski. At least... he hoped he would.

Before the shit completely hit the fan.


	4. Innocentia Pulchra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fraser ponders the nature of innocence.

What Welsh said sticks in my mind. Not only that we have to retrieve the bullet that would incriminate Ray, though that is serious enough. For all that, it should be manageable. No, it is Welsh's comments about our treatment of Ray, the constant obliviations, that get me.

True, he is overreacting, at this stage. Although Ray has been obliviated multiple times, he is nowhere near a tipping point. Welsh doesn't know that, however. He is understandably suspicious of wizards, and probably suspects that we've been wiping Ray's memory far more often than we have. How he had described it... that we were 'lobotomising him every ten minutes.' That phrase keeps returning, and I can't get it out of my head. I feel like a horse with a tabinida stuck under her saddle. Uncomfortably I feel my hand rise up to my collar and tug it, almost as though I had a horsefly digging in underneath it for a good feeding.

Of course, unlike the horse I'm remembering, who ended up needing ointments and unguents for a surprisingly long time, there is something I can do to relieve myself of my discomfort. I look at Ray, while he's working with his head down, and wonder if I should just do it. Tell him the truth, about who and what he is, about our world, about what he means to...

No. Not that. But he should know who he is...

Take him off for lunch, perhaps, somewhere we can sit very privately... a picnic in the park? Or maybe I could take him to my apartment, set wards around it, and... No, don't be silly. That would surely cause gossip in his place of work, and I know that he won't want that. And... what am I thinking? I can't just simply blurt it out. How can I tell him any of it? Not possible. Not magic, nor love, nor war. Not from a cold start. 

Besides, I'm being selfish. I am only entertaining this notion at all because I want him to remember... to remember...

Remember us standing beneath a tree, holding each other in the rain.

If he remembers that, however, he will remember everything that surrounded it. He will remember the shot that missed, his attempt to save me, and the bullet piercing me instead. How was he to know that her magic would wrap her in invulnerability, and that the bullet would bounce back harmless? How could he have envisaged that his bullet might hit me?

I sigh, and rub my head, and stare at the cooling coffee on the desk, stare at the paper work. If it wasn't for Ray, this part of the job would be quite intolerable. Not only do I have my duties as Auror, I have also to present Canada to the muggles, and liaise with this police department, and somehow find time to write up reports for all of them. Reports as an Auror, reports as a Mountie, reports as a liaison officer. Thatcher delights in finding paper work to tie me up. At least Welsh only expects me to hand in weekly reports. His regular staff, of course, have far more paper work. What, however, am I doing, filling this in now? I wasn't even here last week... it dawns on me, of course, that I'm filling in Ray's reports, again, copying them up from his scruffy notes, and I smile, wryly. I brought this on myself. I wouldn't do it for anyone else.

Welsh's words whisper their way back into my head though. We shouldn't keep obliviating Ray. It will, sooner or later, cause him problems. I imagine what would have happened if he had first seen the Black Mark in his current condition, with no knowledge of his heritage, of the war. I imagine that it might have driven him mad. It nearly drove me mad, and I know exactly what that Mark is.

Of course, by the time the Mark was hanging in the sky I was already quite crazy.

I close my eyes, and press the heel of my hand against my forehead. He notices, of course.

“Hey, Fraser, you okay?”

“I'm sorry, Ray, I have a slight headache.” I offer the white lie automatically, and wince. I'm always lying to him. In my head the voice of Welsh is chiding me. 'I don't know how many lies you've had to tell him... don't you think he deserves at least one true friend he can trust?' 

Yes, yes. He does deserve that friend, but would it be friendship to tell him? There really is a chance that he might get through this... innocent. 

I think of innocence, and how fragile a thing it is, how beautiful. For a moment I see Victoria, sleeping, her face smooth, and all that anger and bitterness swallowed up in oblivion. I wonder who she would have become if she had been born a muggle, wonder if it was our world which corrupted her. Broke her mind, broke her heart. For a moment I imagine she and I as muggles, living quietly side by side. No politics, no pain, no poison. I imagine us doing muggle things together. 

I am sure, that if we had been muggles, Victoria and I would have been happy together.

Stop dreaming of Victoria. I can regret her now, without breaking apart, but... she's gone. She's gone. And he's still here. And he's still innocent.

He's looking at me, with his brow furrowed up in concern. I think he believes that my imagined 'slight headache' is more serious than I have said. I smile at him, and try to pass it off. “Don't worry, I'm fine.”

“You wanna break? We've been at it all morning.”

I look at the clock, and it is in fact nearing time for lunch. Well, it won't be a picnic in the park, nor will it be a tête a tête at my apartment, but I'm sure that even the most macho of his colleagues wouldn't think twice about our sharing a drive through meal.

“Burgers,” I suggest, and he rolls his eyes.

“You know, you used to eat a hell of a lot better before that hospital. You've gotta hankering for junk food.”

“As I recall, that's entirely your fault, Ray. You were scarcely bringing me healthy salads or balanced meals.”

“You weren't complaining.”

“No.” I grin. “I was eating.”

“Yeah, well, so long as we can get an extra greasy burger for Dief. You know you can't tell him off any more for eating donuts.”

“Donuts,” I say, “there's an idea...”

He throws his pen at me, with a look of feigned disgust, and we're off, chattering through the building, blithering and talking nonsense, as usual. 

Yes, I think. Innocence. If I can preserve him from our world I will.


	5. Pater Familias.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family chat turns into a council of war.

I realised, of course, that he was going to visit me sometime soon, and imagined that I would have some explaining to do. But when he did turn up he was far more understanding than I had expected, and certainly far more compassionate than I remembered him ever having been in life. I would not wish anyone to misunderstand that. It's not that my father was a man lacking in compassion. Simply that, as my father, he had always been distant. He attempted to make up for his frequent, and lengthy absences by furnishing me with advice. Some of it practical, if bizarre... like tying your wallet to your underpants. Some of it, quite frankly, even odder than that. Never follow a man off a cliff. That's not so much advice as a statement of the blindingly obvious. Though it did turn out to be strangely predictive. However, aphorisms, rules and regulations proved to be the only way in which we knew how to communicate, when he was alive.

Now that he was dead, I was finally developing the relationship with him that I had always craved as a child. Back and forth conversations, in which I was a participant, rather than the audience. The ability to laugh, to spat, to chat back. However now, like a child, I was waiting for the inevitable... well... 'telling off.'

Instead what I got was compassion.

I felt my office go cold, before I saw him. “Hello, Son.” He appeared before me in his red serge, and I was certain, from his formal appearance, that I was about to get a formal reprimand. Without meaning to I was standing, uncomfortably, at attention, as I so often did when a child. He would return from his patrols, be informed of my miscreant actions, and design punishments for them. Ellen, to do her justice, did not report the half of my misdeeds. For a while I was a very resentful child, and bucked wildly under her authority. There were certainly times when I deserved every punishment my father could devise.

Maggie changed all that. Having a sister, someone that Ellen and I could love together, changed everything.

I wondered where Maggie was right now. I wondered if our Father knew. I was, however, afraid to ask.

“Aren't you going to say hello to your old Dad?”

I blinked. “Hello,” I said, and my voice was a question. He hadn't started shouting at me yet.

He sighed. “Sit down, Son. You're not on parade.”

I sat.

“How are you feeling?”

“I'm feeling... okay.”

“You don't look it. If you don't mind my saying so.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Actually, I do. I've got to be okay. You know there's a war on.”

“Yes, I know. And I'm glad you've returned for it.”

Ah, I thought, this is where the lecture starts.

“So,” he said, “what's the plan?”

“The plan?”

“The battle plan? What are we going to do?”

I blinked again. It seemed... it really seemed that he wasn't going to berate me about my conduct with Victoria. 

“Is something bothering you?”

“Yes... I....”

“What?”

“I expected you to... well... to be angry?”

“What should I be angry about?”

“About that... that whole mess with Victoria.”

He looked at me. No condemnation on his face. “Oh, Son, that's forgotten. I think you've been punished enough.”

Oh good grief, I thought. He really isn't going to... bite my head off. Why did I feel somewhat disappointed?

As though he could read my mind (which, for all I know, is quite possible) he said, “I know you probably want me to have a go at you, because you think you deserve it, and then you can be like a child, and have a good sulk about it, but I think we've both grown up a bit in the last few years, don't you?”

“You haven't grown anywhere,” I said, with the strange bluntness that has developed between us. “You're dead.” 

“As you keep saying, with over-much glee I might add. It's not good for a man's self esteem.”

We seemed to be back to joking with each other again. “Well, I'm sorry, but it's true.”

He rolled his eyes in mock irritation. “Come on, Son. War plan? What is it?”

“Well,” I dropped my voice. “You know Canada has fallen?”

“Yes, yes. Unlike some, I've been keeping up with the news.”

“I thought you weren't going to tell me off?”

“I'll send you to your room if you keep this up. War plan. Now.”

I allowed my voice to sink to something softer than a whisper, and leaned across the desk, thanking heaven for the fact that, as he was a ghost, I barely needed to breathe the words for him to hear them. He listened, and nodded, and assured me that he will do his part. As I knew, of course, he would.

When he left I sat back, feeling comforted. It had been a lot less difficult a reunion than I had imagined. 

Suddenly, and to my alarm, I heard the slightest movement outside my office door. A furtive shush noise as a foot slid slightly on the carpet, and, when I bent my hearing to it, the sound of breathing, deliberately measured. Somebody had been listening at the door. 

With extreme caution I got to my feet, and made my way across the room. I shut my eyes, and prayed that no enemy had been lurking, overhearing...

I swung the door open swiftly, and stepped back, shocked. 

Inspector Thatcher was standing in the corridor, looking as startled as I felt. It was obvious that she had no idea she could be overheard. It must have been equally obvious to her that I was deeply embarrassed by what she must have heard. The woman has harboured doubts about my sanity for sometime now. I could scarcely have risen in her esteem. 

I cleared my throat, and she straightened her stance.

“Constable,” she said, and nodded curtly. “Carry on.” She turned and walked down the corridor, no doubt to her own spacious office. 

Oh Lord. Just what I need.


	6. Demens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thatcher expresses her reservations about Fraser's mental health.

“That man,” I say, leaning across the desk confidentially, “is seriously disturbed.” 

My hopes for moral support from Turnbull seem to have been sadly misplaced. He simply stands there, with his arms folded behind his back, looking stoic... rather like Constable Fraser himself, when I think of it, before the man began to crack. 

When I first met Fraser he rubbed me instantly up the wrong way. He was absolutely flawless at his job, which in itself can be extremely annoying. At times, I thought, he was almost passive aggressively obedient to the letter of the law. One particularly excruciating attempt of his to park with perfect legality resulted in me being not only late for an ambassadorial event, but also having my broach snatched. After that I decided not to bother asking him to drive me anywhere ever again. Which, could, of course, have been the Constable's plan all along. 

Those idiosyncrasies are tolerable. But, the fact is, he has always been a little bit odd. He talks to that dog, wolf, whatever it is, as though he thinks the thing can talk back. Now, I know people talk to their pets, but you don't often hear them conversing with their pets quite so vigorously, contradicting their pet's imaginary replies, arguing about their pet's menu preferences, wagging professorial fingers at them while telling them not to be such an ingrate.

What sort of man uses a word like 'ingrate' anyway? Apart from him, and I suppose, Constable Turnbull.

No, it is obvious from Turnbull's poker straight stance and cautiously guarded face that he is not going to be an ally. Closing ranks, I realise, against the boss. Of course Turnbull must know that Fraser is... well... crackers. By now everybody in the building must suspect something. But, cop culture being what it is, the troops seem to have ganged up on me, and decided that Fraser's... 'condition' is best kept in the family. I'm in charge, so I'm not family.

It saddens me. I had thought Turnbull too professional to let such considerations get in the way of doing the job well. I give him another chance.

“Turnbull,” I urge him, “I know you're trying to protect him, but I'm not the bad guy. Please, keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says. “In what way, Sir?”

It's going to be like that, is it? “Make sure that if he starts talking to himself or his dog he at least doesn't do it in front of the Americans,” I snap. “We don't want them to believe that Canada is represented by demented gibbering wrecks.”

He clears his throat, and gets dangerously close to insubordination. “Constable Fraser is scarcely a demented gibbering wreck, Sir,” he says. 

“You haven't heard him talking to his dead father?”

He pauses for a fraction too long. “I have not heard him talking to himself, Sir.” 

“Really? You surprise me.” I try to make eye contact, but he might as well be guarding the gates of Buckingham Palace. “Yesterday he was having a very intense conversation, which, from what I heard, involved him, and his dead father. You have never heard anything like that?”

“As I say, Sir, I have never heard the Constable talking to himself.”

I have never known Turnbull to lie. For a moment I wonder if I've been mistaken, but then I start to add up the oddities I've seen over recent months. When a man starts walking into closets at work and talking to any mothballed clothing that might be hanging around, you know there's a problem. His mood swings and difficulties concentrating had been becoming an issue of concern even before he was shot. Now... actually, now he seems a lot calmer. It is the conversation I overheard yesterday that has set my alarm bells ringing again.

Well, it seems I will have to keep an eye on Fraser without the support of his colleagues. Obviously his ability to represent Canada to the Americans is compromised, so I imagine I'll have to cut down his contact with the twenty-seventh precinct. Find easy work for him until he's got over whatever it is that's bothering him now.

I envisage a lot of guard duty for him, a lot of filling envelopes, typing up forms, and filing. At least until he gets his head screwed back on. Assuming it was ever screwed on in the first place...

I raise a hand and gesture to the door. “Dismissed,” I say. Turnbull practically snaps his heels together in military fashion before stepping sharply out of the room.

It does disappoint me that the staff here are so secretive. There are cliques amongst cliques, and I'm outside of all of them. If only my staff would trust me they would realise that I do have their best interests at heart. Despite his ability to drive me up the wall, I have actually become quite fond of Constable Fraser. He grows on you, after a while. I'm even drinking bark tea now. I know far more than I used to about the logistics of managing a dog team. 

But as things stand he can't work so closely with the Americans. I want to keep him where I can see him. Perhaps if I can give him light duty it will give him time to recover. If so, then I won't have to write to Ottawa with my concerns.

Ah well. Regretfully I pull the duty roster toward me, and perch my glasses on my nose. Yes, I think, I can rearrange the duties so that the Constable is not unduly taxed by contact with the public. Just until he stops talking to himself and hiding in closets.

I fill in the necessary paper work, and send his amended work schedule to the Constable. I feel lighter now that a decision has been made, and forget about the problem for the rest of the day.


	7. Casus Belli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his busy schedule, Fraser makes time for lunch with Ray.

Ray is looking... displeased with the world.

“That woman,” he shakes his head, “that woman's a serious bi...”

I raise my hand to interrupt him. “Really, Ray, I'd sooner you didn't call her a...”

“Bimbo. She's a serious bimbo.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really? That isn't the noun I thought you were reaching for. Though, it is still rather disappointingly misogynistic of you.” 

He grins at me knowingly. “You were thinking the same thing, weren't you? You thought I was gonna say another 'b' word. I wonder why?”

I decide not to answer that. Instead I try to distract us both by expounding etymologically. Or, as Ray would put it, waffling. “Interestingly enough, the word 'bimbo' has only been used to describe women for a relatively short period of time. It derives originally from the Italian 'bambino,' which refers, as I'm sure you know, to a baby, and entered the English language via the London stage, referring to the male role of...”

“Fraser,” he interrupts me, and I stop. I am hoping that he will have forgotten his irritation with Inspector Thatcher, and instead go off on a rant about how nobody wants to know any of that stuff, and what's wrong with me, do I have a dictionary in my head or a stick up my... I ready myself for the expected diatribe, but it doesn't come. He's looking at me, and I find that, unusually, I can't read his expression. “Fraser, are you all right?”

I pause. Am I all right? Yes, I suppose so. The bullet wound is healing, though it's taking me longer than I expected to build up my physical stamina. I can, however, breathe properly, and if my appetite is anything to go by I'll be back to my normal weight in no time. Yes, we're in a war, and I have a thousand things to worry about. The covert and cautious patrol of the safe houses, making sure that neither muggle nor magical are aware of my presence, so as not to give away key locations. Checking security, making sure all wards, protections and disillusionments are in place. Visiting our refugees, trying to offer what comfort and support I can. Keeping an eye on would be muggle muggers. All this and maintaining a front at work, both at the Consulate, and at the Two Seven.

I am all right. Overworked, but all right.

“Yes, Ray,” I say gently, “thank you kindly, everything's fine.”

“You sure? Because I wouldn't be. I can't believe she's got you pulling these idiot duties. You're her deputy, for fuck's sake. She shouldn't treat you like a, like a... what's the word, rookie.”

“Don't worry, Ray, I'm sure that it's only temporary. She's simply giving me light duties until she's sure I've physically recovered.”

“Heh,” he laughs, and pokes my arm. “You look physically recovered to me.”

His comment embarrasses me. I've seen myself naked, and he hasn't. My ribs are no longer visible, and I'm continuing, when I can find a moment, to do my physio, so yes, physically I am improving. But when I see my reflection it is not the bullet scar that draws my eye. I find myself tracing fine white lines, where she drew her nails across my skin, little blades writing pain with my blood. I'm sure I could banish them by magic, but I feel compelled to keep them, if only as a reminder never to let myself fall so low again.

“Hey, Frase buddy, you're blushing. I didn't mean nothing by it.”

I am sure that the double negative is deliberate, an attempt to draw me out. He nudges me, and gives me his 'buddies' wink. He has developed mechanisms to hide from himself how he feels. Sadly, I've seen the truth of his feelings. His self protective techniques, while no doubt making him feel better make me feel... merely sad.

“I'm sure she will return me to full duty soon enough,” I say, stiffly. 

The truth is, part of me is relieved that she has me on light duties. It gives me more time to devote to what is important... the war. Every day I am blessed with an island of time when I can leave a simulacrum of myself standing guard on the stoop outside the Consulate. It probably does the job better than I do. In her own way, Thatcher has done me a favour.

Ray's face falls, he looks dejected. I think, perhaps, there's something in my tone which he doesn't understand. I must appear standoffish at times. Perhaps he thinks we've fallen out with each other. 

Damn. There it is again, the desire to kiss him.

Awkwardly I reach a hand out and pat him. It's more his kind of gesture. After recent events I have become... uncomfortable with intimacy, I suppose. Though I could imagine him and I... But no. I am trying to maintain an emotional distance from him, for both our sakes. And yet... I find myself reaching out to touch anyway. Pat, pat, a clumsy gesture of affection, as though I thought he was Dief. I can't help myself, however. I want to touch him. I don't like to see him hurt.

“At least she lets me eat lunch,” I say. 

“Burgers?” The look he gives me is relieved, as he settles back into a jocular camaraderie. “Or are you all burgered out?”

I flick through my mental ledger, the jobs I have to do today... yes, I can just about make time. “We could try that new Italian place,” I suggest. “I might even reintroduce salad into my life.”

“So long as I get dibs on the garlic bread.”

“Understood.” 

I think he guesses, on some level, as we eat that I am not giving him my full attention. My magical senses are stretched, and I am thinking of the most recent family of refugees to have arrived, wondering if they have settled in yet, wondering if I brought them enough blankets. I wish I could talk to him about it, wish I could indulge myself with more time in his company. But I can't, and even this island of friendship is making me feel guilty. 

The war. Sometimes it feels like we've already lost. 

As Ray and I part at the door of the restaurant and make our separate ways, I square my shoulders. Something my Grandmother said comes to mind. It was toward the end of her life, during the last war. 'Benton, you mustn't be afraid, ever. Never give up.' She had smiled, even though she was so weak. The veins shone through her tissue paper skin, and it hurt her to breathe, but she was Grandmother. Never did leave a thought unfinished. 'The war against evil can never be finally lost,” she said, sounding, even while dying, like one of the eighteenth century books she liked to read. “There will always be people to fight it. People who will stand against the dark, no matter what it takes, and fight the long defeat.'

Grandmother, I thought. Our cause is poorer without her.

My dear Ray Kowalski, of course, would be a man to stand against the Dark Lord, if he knew. If I have anything to do with it, he never will know. 

It is our war, it always has been, a sick overflow of our corrupt society. And so it is up to us, the guilty, the wizards... it is up to us to put it right.


	8. Hei Caco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray gets some extremely bad news.

“Detective Kowalski,” Welsh pops up at my desk, and makes me jump. Normally you can hear him coming a mile off. He's always shouting at someone, barking at people for whatever. Not that he's not a good guy, he is. Just, must be hell to run this place. Surprised he's not died of a heart attack or something... can't think of another precinct that ever had reindeer roaming the corridor. 

Plus the guy's a door slammer. I don't think there's a door in this place he hasn't slammed. Except the morgue. Mort's a scarey kinda guy. Doesn't mean to be, just is. Maybe it's the job... Or the opera. Creeps me out.

But yeah, anyway, so Welsh is standing next to my desk, which probably means I'm in deep shit, but he's not looking angry, and he's not shouting, which probably means I'm drowning in shit, and he can't do anything to help me.

“Sir?”

“I need to talk to you, Ray,” he says, and it's not the usual. “Office, Kowalski, now.” That would mean business as usual. “I need to talk to you, Ray,” said quietly means... fuck I don't know. But it sure as hell aint good.

I'm jittery as he shuts the door, and it's about all I can do not to bounce on the spot. “Sit down,” he says, and again it's gentle like. I start thinking, has somebody died? When did I last speak to my parents, maybe a car crash... then I think about what's really terrifying me. Something happen to Fraser? 

I've been trying not to think of it ever since that fuck up at the zoo, whatever the hell that was about. I keep thinking, 'shot, some bastard shot Fraser,' and keep kicking myself for not stopping them... and keep scratching at it, cause it's like a scab, and it's damned itchy. And I feel like it's my fault he got shot. Like... I dunno. It just itches, and I can't pick it clean.

“Sit down,” he says again, and I realise that I'm freaking out, because I heard him the first time, but my brains doing its sideways thing, you know when you're scared of something, and you're watching yourself do stuff, like it's a movie or something? Kinda like that. Only what the fuck am I scared of?

I sit down, and I must be gawping at him like an idiot. “Is Fraser all right, Sir,” I ask, and really, that's the only thing on my mind.

“Yes, Detective, the Constable is fine. I'm having this talk with you, because Internal Affairs have a few questions...”

“Internal Affairs? What about?”

He sighs, and I'm still shit scared, because he's just being too damned nice. “It seems, and I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, that they have some questions about Constable Fraser's shooting.”

“What kinda questions? I don't remember what the hell happened, but I'll do what I can to help.”

“I know you will, Detective. I'd expect nothing less from you. But the problem is...” He clears his throat, starts scratching his chin. “The problem is that they are investigating you for the shooting.”

Oh, fuck... fuck and... weird. My brain does that sideways thing again, and it's like, I've got words in my head, but my mouth won't work any more.

“Did you hear me, Detective?”

Shit. What do I... Say something, fuck it, say something Kowalski. “Uh huh.”

“You're entitled to legal aid, and I strongly advise you to have an advocate from the Police Protection League during the interview. I've already spoken with someone on your behalf who is happy to take the case. David Mahlner. He's a good man, and, Detective,” he leans forward and looks me straight in the eye, “I really really urge you to accept the help. Before we start, and this is strictly between ourselves, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No,” and thank fuck I'm talking again, “I mean, shit, I dunno, what if I did shoot him? I mean everyone was going crazy that day, and I can't remember. Fuck... I can't remember.”

Welsh does that thing where he looks like an angry bear. If he's angry maybe it's not that bad...

But shit, he's not angry. Or not with me. “This is why you need legal counsel. I don't want you going into a meeting with Internal Affairs and saying, 'yeah, maybe I did it'. If you do that, you know they'll take the easy option and pin it on you.”

“Yeah but... Sir, what if it was me? I mean, they must think it's me for a reason. What have they got?”

His face goes slack, and he slumps on his chair.

“Unfortunately, when they checked you at the hospital, you were covered in blow back and ballistics confirm that the bullet came from your gun.”

I just gawp at him. Shit. That's bad. That's fucking bad... And, oh fuck... why is everything green? Oh shit. And there's a skull in the sky. Oh shit. And Fraser's... what... he's floating?

Welsh is looking at me, worried. I realise I've got my hands on my head, and I'm sorta, I dunno, squeezing my temples. “Are you all right, Detective? Can I get you a glass of water?”

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shittedy shit. He's being way too nice. I'm in the fucking crapper, and IA are going to flush me. Shit. 

“I'm okay, thanks, Sir.”

“Do you remember anything at all? No matter how odd or irrelevant, it could be helpful.”

Green, and Fraser floating, and rain...

Nah, it's gone. Whatever the fuck it was.

“I'm sorry, Sir, no.”

“Well,” Welsh sighs, and he's still being way too nice, “that will do for now. I'm afraid I have to limit your duty until this is sorted out, but I want you to know that I don't believe this for a second.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I say, and wish I could think the same.

“I'll call you through here when your advocate turns up, and give you the room.”

“Thank you, Sir,” and I sound like a broken record.

Cause something just dawned on me, and it's the worst 'oh shit' of them all. Now I know why Fraser's been funny with me. Why Thatcher won't let him work at the Two Seven.

Fraser knows what really happened. And if I did shoot him, if I was that crazy from the gas or whatever it was, he's not gonna blame me. But... it's gonna make him treat me different. 

Shit. I just lost my best friend, my... (and I forget... what was I thinking?)

Oh Shit. What if I did shoot him after all?


	9. Meos Quaeso Protege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray Vecchio helps Benny protect Kowalski, and the refugees.

I've just finished patrolling the exteriors of the safe houses, and am in my apartment organising supplies for the refugees when Vecchio apparates in with a champagne pop. He grins at me, proffering what appears to be an evidence bag.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah, Benny, we're okay. Got the bullet.”

I take the plastic bag, and look at the object it contains, curiously. It is strange to think that this was once in my body. I open the bag, drop the bullet onto my left palm, point my wand at it, and whisper. The atoms scatter beneath the charm, and drift like smoke, as the little piece of metal is disassembled into nothing.

“Unfortunately,” I say, wiping my left hand on my trousers, “the ballistic report has already been filed. I did try to recover it in time, but, as you know they are very organised about these things. I got as many of the hard copies as possible, but they'd already filed it on the computers. It's too deeply in the system.”

Vecchio nods, his grin fading. He's always been good at hiding his emotions, but knowing him as I now do, I can tell that he's feeling guilty. “Yeah... yeah. We've thought about it, too, how to get rid of the report, but you know, even if we got it off the system, there's too many people know about it now. There's staff at the hospital who know about the blow back, there are technicians who know about the ballistics, and the Internal Affairs guys. Well, you know what they're like. You don't know who they've told. Even if we obliviated everyone we could find, we can't get everybody.”

“I know.”

“Benny, I'm really sorry...”

“About what?”

“I wish I coulda got the bullet at the scene, but it was still in you. I couldn't just go, 'accio bullet'. It woulda come out wrong, torn another damn hole in you.”

“I know, Ray.” 

“I mean, when you were in the hospital I just couldn't, you know, leave you and start hunting round for bullets and ballistic reports.”

It sounds painfully like he's trying to persuade himself, and failing. 

“Please, Ray, don't blame yourself. I do understand.” I smile at him, as best I can, but I'm feeling so sorry for him that my face does not comply. “You had to be with me, to guard them as much as me. You couldn't leave a wizard in the throes of delirium alone in a hospital full of muggles. You did the right thing.” I wish I could assure him of that fact. He looks away from me, rubs his face, and yawns. It reminds me sharply of how weary he was when he watched me at the hospital, those long days and nights. “There just aren't enough of us to do everything. You didn't just do the right thing. You did the only thing.” 

“Yeah, yeah... I know. At least...” he leans back against the wall, and blows out a heavy breath. “At least Kowalski isn't going to jail. They can't pin him with anything if the bullet is missing.”

“That's true, and I'm thankful.”

“And, you know... maybe the investigation will work out okay. I mean, there are other explanations. They might decide that the shooter took his gun, and that he was covered in blow back because they struggled.”

“That is the story that I'm going with.”

“So, things could work out okay.”

“Yes.” I smile, encouraged. “I'm sure they will.” I imagine the investigation being dropped, and Ray being able to continue with his job. I want so much for him... an ordinary life. A life that he can make his own, be happy in. A life with only the muggle magics of the day to day. I picture him with a wife, perhaps, the children that he and Stella talked about. I imagine him forgetting me, and moving on, and it causes a strange stir in my heart, of longing, and loss, and gladness.

Ray might yet be happy.

“Hey, you sorting out care packages?”

“Yes,” I say, coming back to reality. “We need some terry nappies...” I notice his blank expression, realise that I'm using my mother's vocabulary, and amend my statement. “Cloth diapers. The latest family to arrive includes a very pregnant lady.”

“Great, just what we need...”

“When it happens, either your mother or I will be available to help. Though...” I gaze at him ruefully, “I imagine your mother would be a far better midwife. I may know what to do, but understandably the mother would prefer a woman to help her.”

“Ah, stop talking about it Benny, you're making me squeamish.”

“Understood. But nappies... diapers need to go on the shopping list. Perhaps Francesca?”

“Yeah, she'd like to be helpful.” His brow crinkles with concern. It's a strange thing, but since the legilimens, as traumatic for him as for me, I find myself reading him far more easily than I used to. He is worried about his sister.

“Is Francesca all right?”

“I dunno,” he says, tersely. He doesn't want to talk about it, and I shouldn't have asked. Nevertheless, he continues for a moment. “You know, me and Zuko never saw eye to eye...” He trails off, sucks his lower lip for the fraction of a second, as though he could retract the words, and lets his face go blank.

Really, I shouldn't have asked. Behind the Auror mask Ray's looking as miserable as I've ever seen him. 

I change the subject. “You want to help me with this box?”

“Yeah, yeah Benny.”

We carry on packing, and Vecchio valiantly tries to talk about ordinary things. I nod and say 'ah ha?' as necessary while he discusses a ball game. Finally, we have everything we need. I thank him for his help, and he nods, goes “yeah” and pops out of view. I gather the required allotment of boxes together, sit on them, hold my wand, concentrate hard, and pop into the nearest safe house.

Around me there is a frantic scattering of frightened people, then a shared release of breath and palpable relief as they recognise me. I stand, and start handing out supplies. Watch the children huddled silently against the walls.

I will be doing this for hours yet, apparating from house to house, dropping off supplies, getting updates from their inhabitants, fulfilling requests. In the middle of all this, it is no wonder that a single bullet was nearly overlooked. My good friend Ray Vecchio has done my other dear Ray a great favour. For that I am more grateful than I can ever say.


	10. Confiteor vobis Fratres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray has a confession to make.

Yeah... that's it then. Shit... that's it. I've fucking torn it now.

They look at me like they think I might jump up and shoot them, and normally, you know, normally I'd be pissed. I mean, who do these guys think they are, coming along digging in someone's life like this? Only it's not someone, it's me. And if it was just me, it wouldn't matter, I could blow 'em off. But it's about Fraser, so it matters. So I gotta do this... do it right.

Yeah... Welsh can stick his advice up his ass. I shouldn't be angry with him, but it's up to me if I 'avail myself of legal council,' or whatever the hell else he wanted me to do. Stella would agree with him, I mean, shit, she'd kill me if she knew. Ask me what the hell was the point of the Polish American Police Association, and I'd say, 'yeah, what is the point? I never wanted to join that thing, stop nagging for like a minute won't you?' (Stella, God, I'll probably never see her again.) But fuck it. I know lawyers. He's not interested in finding out what really happened. He's just some guy who wants to shut me up, who's gonna try and stop me telling the truth.

So I'm in here by myself, and I'm gonna find out what the truth is. Yeah, and then I'll tell it. 

Fuck. I'm in trouble.

“So, Detective Kowalski, just so we're clear. You are telling us that, although you have no recollection of the incident itself, you have been having flashbacks?”

“Yes, Sir,” I say, and realise that I'm being Canadian. Sound like Fraser or Turnbull. She probably wants to be called Ma'am. Fuck it. “I mean, not like flashbacks, cause I don't know if they really happened. But like, pictures. In my head.” I clear my throat, and look at my fingers, going hot in the face. I sound like a nutjob. “I don't know what happened, but...” Shit, I've gotta get this out. “I've kinda, sorta...” 

“Sort of what?” She's actually sounding quite gentle at this point. I'd prefer it if she was tearing me a new one.

“It's like I keep having this weird dream, only...” I close my eyes. This is so fucking embarrassing, but I owe it to Fraser to be honest. Not about what I dreamt between me and him, that's none of their business, but about the rest of it. “I mean, it's not always a dream. Sorta, only I sometimes seen it when I'm awake. Only for a minute I mean, it's not like I'm a psycho.” I feel a bubble of panic rising, and swallow it down. “I kinda think it was raining, there was a whole lotta mud. And... there was some woman there, only she looked funny, sorta...” (oh shit, I can't believe I'm gonna say this) “sorta like a witch.” I stop, and bring my hands up to my face, hide for a brief moment. “Shit, I know what that sounds like. I'm not saying I really saw a witch you know...”

“We understand. The gas obviously affected people very dramatically. A lot of people report hallucinations. Please, Detective, carry on. You're doing very well.”

Oh, greatness. Now they're being condescending. They probably have the guys with butterfly nets on speed dial. 

“Yeah, well, I was with Frase, Constable Fraser I mean, we were... I dunno, talking about something...” My head crinkles up as I try to remember what we were talking about. Shit. It's all in pieces, and it's muddled up with that dream I have about us hugging each other and... wow, now I can feel how hot his breath was on my face, and solid, you know, the weight of him, just right in my arms. 

I blink, and I'm back in a room with a bunch of suits staring at me. What the hell am I doing here? Takes me a minute to remember, and by the time I do, it's obvious they know I just zoned out on 'em. How long was I out? Shit.

“Sorry... yeah, the woman, her face was all twisted up, and it was like there was this green light, and...”

“And what?”

“And, well, Fraser was like...” I stop. Fuck. I really really want to tell them everything, but this is just too weird. I stare at them for some moral support, but they're just looking at me like they're bored. Probably shitting bricks, but want to keep it together so as not to set the crazy guy off. 

“Constable Fraser was like what,” she says gently.

“Floating,” I say, “kinda looked like he was floating.”

A long silence, and the secretary in the corner of the room is typing like, well, like Fraser. Clack clack, clucketty clack. 

The boss woman starts talking again. “So, you say that these 'flashbacks' of yours have been happening while you're awake. How long do your visual hallucinations last for?”

Oh. Shit. “Uh... my what?”

She puts her piece of paper down, looks at me kindly over her glasses, and smiles. Oh damn, I'm in trouble. It's like Welsh being nice to me, only a gazillion times worse. “When you have your flashes, and see things, how long does it usually last?”

“I dunno. I've not timed it.” I let out a nervous laugh. “Not long.”

“I see. And is there anything else that you remember, or that you've 'seen' in your episodes?”

My episodes. Yeah...

“Um...” Oh shit. I feel my face go white, and I freeze on my chair. The woman leans across the desk, and says something, only I'm like, sideways again, and I can't hear what's coming out her mouth.

It's raining, and I'm all over mud, and Fraser's floating, and that aint right, and he's got his arms wide open like Jesus, and that woman, shit, Victoria? She's holding a stick out at him, and he's... looks like he should be screaming but there's no noise. Only rain.

I'm back in the room again for a moment, and the woman's still talking. My eyes are fixed on her, but I can't quite figure out what...

Oh shit. It's raining, and Fraser's doing that silent scream, and I pull out my gun...

Fuck.

I'm standing there, and the gun's gone off in my hand, and Fraser's hit.

Oh God.

And I'm back with the suits, and the boss woman is standing, looks like she's gonna come around the table to see if I'm still there. Shit, I can see her now, and I can hear the birds outside the window, and the silence from the steno, steny, typist woman.

“Detective Kowalski, are you all right?”

From a long way off I hear it. My voice, real flat. 

“I did it. I shot Constable Fraser.”


	11. Legum Servi Sumus

I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Elaine passes me with a bundle of files in her arms, and smiles as I pass. I smile back, and keep on... well, not running. One does not run at work. But walking as quickly as possible. Practically springing on my heels Kowalski style. Ray should have finished his own interview by now, and be at his desk. I want to see him. Tell him that it will be okay.

Ray is not at his desk. 

I turn, confused, and ask Elaine, now at the filing cabinet busily divesting herself of papers. “Elaine, have you seen Ray?”

“Yeah, he went in to see Welsh about ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you kindly,” I smile.

She returns the smile, then buries herself in filing, letting her hair fall over her face, hiding. I think the last time I smiled at her I embarrassed her. I blush, tug my finger round my collar. Ray, I think. I'll go and tell Ray the good news.

Ray is not in the Lieutenant's office.

“Sir, I'm sorry... I thought that Ray was with you.”

“Sit down,” he says, and I sit, automatically, only distantly registering how unusual it is for a squib to address an Auror so bluntly. Of course, Welsh has always been blunt, and never one to stand on ceremony. It's one of the things I like about him.

“Sir?”

“Constable, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.” He shifts his chair, and it scrapes against the bare wood of his floor. He grimaces, and glares at me. “Ray Kowalski has just confessed to Internal Affairs that he shot you. He's tendered his badge and gun. As of today, he's no longer a cop.”

All the blood flows out of me, and I'm as cold as my father's ghost.

“No,” I whisper, and even the word is chilly on my tongue.

“Yes. I'm afraid so, Constable. Believe it or not, he's just thrown himself on his sword for you. I hope you're happy.”

“I... I just told them... I had a story, I made them believe...”

“What? You told another lie?” He sounds bitter. “I told you to make it right, to treat Kowalski like a human being, stop obliviating the brains out of him. I told you the clever ones remember. Well, unfortunately, he started remembering in the middle of his interview, only not enough to protect himself. Did he shoot you?”

“Not... not really...”

“Was he holding the gun that shot you? Did he pull the trigger?”

I stare at him. It's too late to tell anything other than the truth. “Yes,” I whisper, “but he wasn't aiming for me.”

“Who the hell was he aiming at?”

“The woman... the woman who had me in cruciatus.”

At that he jerks, and flinches. When he speaks again his voice is no longer raised. “I'm sorry, Constable. I didn't know.” I don't say anything, drop my head. Only one thing in my life was more painful than the cruciatus, and I don't think of that. I bite my tongue, hard enough that it bleeds. The little sting and the sharp taste of blood remind me again of Victoria, and I close my eyes, wish he wasn't looking at me. The silence stretches between us, and I feel my hands clenching into fists.

“Fraser,” he says, and it registers that he's used my name, that his voice is soft. “He was aiming for her, you say?”

“Yes, Sir, he was trying to save me.”

“But he missed?”

“No, Sir. It was... ricochet.”

“You saw that, even though you were in... that curse?”

“I saw her.” My voice hitches. “I saw... her. I saw the bullet bounce.” I remember again how time stretched out beneath the razor of her wand, how each second elongated into intolerable moments, each minute into...

Oh God. Stop thinking about it.

But yes, I had an eternity to watch the bullet's trajectory. From Ray's gun, to Victoria, rebounding from Victoria to me. And the bullet, when it hit, was a mercy. For one long blessed moment all I could feel was its mercy, its distraction, when it hit and pierced my chest.

Welsh stands, paces behind his desk. Not far in either direction. It strikes me again that his office is too small. Bigger than mine, but still, not really fitting for a man of his experience. 

“You realise,” he says, “that if you'd listened to me, if you'd told him the truth, he'd have been prepared for this. He wouldn't have just thrown his whole career away.”

“Yes, Sir,” I'm whispering, looking at my hands, now locked in a double clench across my lap. “I thought...”

“What did you think? Wizards know best?”

“No, Sir. I thought... I thought that he didn't need to know about our...” my lips clench, and I spit the word out bitterly, “shit.” I swallow, aware that Welsh has frozen in his pacing, shocked by my obscenity. “I thought he didn't need to know about us. That if we could just get through this, maybe he could live a proper life. Away from our politics, and our wars, and... I'm sorry. I just wanted to spare him.”

There is a long silence, and a sigh. I feel a heavy hand drop on my shoulder, and squeeze. Welsh is standing next to me, and I feel sympathy coming off him in waves. It doesn't do me any good. It can't do my poor Ray any good. Everything I hoped for him, everything he deserved... it has all been destroyed.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” I say, “so sorry. I thought I was acting for the best... I didn't mean to...” I stop talking. What's the point? I'm only making excuses. There's nothing left to say.

I look up at Welsh, and he's looking down at me, and it hits me that he pities me. Like I'm a... Ray would say it, and I've got Ray in my head now. Like I'm a fuck up. 

I push my chair back, and stand. “Sir, may I be excused?”

“Are you all right Constable? Do you need a moment?”

“No, Sir. Just... I think I should find Ray. I think it's time to tell him...” I sneer at myself as I find the words. “I think it's time to tell him about our shit.”


	12. In Vino Veritas

First thing I do is lock the apartment door, take the phone off the hook, and stick some music on, loud. Doesn't matter what it is, just so long as it drowns out my thoughts. I draw all the curtains, go to the top cupboard, the one I've been ignoring every day since Stella and I... since he said I couldn't see her any more.

Go to the cupboard, and pull out the scotch, look around for a clean glass, and find a coffee mug instead. Fuck it. It's either that or drink from the bottle, and I'm not as far gone as that.

Not yet, anyway.

First big gulp bites, and brings water to my eyes. I know the next one will be easier, and the one after that easier still. 

Shit. I shot Fraser. I shot Fraser. I shot...

I knock it back, and it still doesn't drown it. Shit. Fill the mug again. Drain it. Fill it again.

I shot Fraser.

There's a knocking on the door, but they can damned well keep on knocking. The music's not that loud, and it's not after hours. They got a problem, they can phone the fucking cops. I laugh again, and lean forward, grasp the mug with one hand, shove my knuckles into my eye with the other. 

I shot Fraser.

There's this little noise, can't figure out what it is against the music. Sudden little noise, like someone hit a drum with their thumb instead of a stick. Fuck it, who cares what it was? Glitch on the CD, or I'm hallucinating again. 'Having an episode,' or whatever that woman called it.

“Ray.” I hear his voice, and I know I'm hallucinating now. I've gone fucking crazy. Cracked. I laugh, and take another long swallow. It's not burning any more.

“Ray,” he says again, and somebody takes the mug, pulls it from my grasp. I open my eyes, and there he is, big as day, right in front of me. 

“When did you get a key?”

“I didn't use a key,” he says, “I apparated here.”

Appa what?

For a moment I'm grateful that he's here, then it dawns on me. I'm just seeing things again.

“Fuck off,” I say, “come back when you're real.”

“I am real, Ray, please, listen to me.”

“You're not real. Real people don't just appear in locked rooms going 'hello Ray, look at me, I'm a hallucination.'”

“I'm not an hallucination,” he's sounding irritated, and I'm quite impressed. My imagination's pretty good at detail.

“Yeah, sure. And my name's not Smith in Polish.”

“Ray...”

“Ray Smith, damned ordinary name, dontcha think? I mean, what would a guy like you see in a guy like me anyway? I'm just some dumb ass Pollack, ignorant fuck, and now it turns out that I'm a schizo, or a psycho, or... who gives a fucking fuck? Now I'm talking to my imaginary friend cause I don't have any real ones left.”

“RAY.” He shouts at me, and I open my eyes. That I wouldn't have expected. My imagination's either better than I thought or...

Fuck. He's crying.

“Fraser,” I say, and I'm all muddled up now, because we're sort of here, and we're sort of in the rain. He's kneeling in front of me now, right in front of the couch, like if I was a woman he was gonna propose. And he's got my two hands clenched in his, and he just looks so...

Looks so sad.

“Ray,” he says, and he sounds like he's pleading with me, only I don't know what for. “Ray,” he says again, and yeah, he's crying. And I didn't know he could. Didn't think he had it in him. “Ray...”

I lurch forward, drag my hands out of his grasp, and grab his head. I'm giddy, and stupid, and I'm gonna hate myself later but...

I pull his face up to mine, pull him into a kiss.  
…  
…

When I hear the music outside his apartment I am sure that he is home. But he doesn't answer the door. I knock again, but again he doesn't answer.

Urgent. I feel a dread sense of urgency. Ray... I feel as though he's in danger. As though for all the harm I've done him, he's in danger now of something worse.

Without even considering it, I apparate into his apartment. I'm going to tell him the truth anyway. There's nothing left to hide.

He's on the sofa. Couch. For a moment I think he's relaxing, then I see that he's punishing himself. There's a bottle of whisky next to him, and from the smell he's been beating himself with it since he got home.

“Ray,” I say, and he ignores me. Perhaps he didn't hear. “Ray,” I say, and pull the mug from his hands, dump it next to the bottle. The bottle's half empty.

“When did you get a key?”

It's a huge relief to hear him respond to me. He's not completely gone. “I didn't use a key,” I say, “I apparated here.”

“Fuck off,” he says, slurring slightly. “Come back when you're real.”

Oh God. I did this to him. I should have listened to Welsh. “I am real, Ray,” I tell him, “please, listen to me.”

“You're not real.” He smiles, sour, with his eyes shut. “Real people don't just appear in locked rooms going 'hello Ray, look at me, I'm a hallucination.'”

“I'm not an hallucination.” Oh God, I'm so sick of myself, so tired, so angry and disappointed in what I have done to my friend. I make me sick.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, “and my name's not Smith in Polish.”

“Ray...”

“Ray Smith, damned ordinary name, dontcha think? I mean, what would a guy like you see in a guy like me anyway?” He's at an aggressively self loathing stage of his drunkenness, and it hurts to hear him. “I'm just some dumb ass Pollack, ignorant fuck, and now it turns out that I'm a schizo, or a psycho, or... oh, who gives a fucking fuck? Now I'm talking to my imaginary friend cause I don't have any real ones left.”

“RAY.” His name bursts out of me in a shout, and he opens his eyes, wide. 

“Fraser,” he says, and I'm on my knees before him, clasping his two hands in mine. He looks so lost. So little boy, lonely, and lost.

Looks so sad.

“Ray, Ray, Ray,” I say, and my face is wet. I can't think of what to say to make it better, and all I can say is his name. Remind him who he is. Who he is to me. “Ray...”

And then, sudden as a kick in the head, he's right up close to me. Face to face, mouth to mouth, lip to lip.

Oh. 

My lips part involuntarily, and gently his tongue is in my mouth. I can taste the whisky on it, but despite the vileness of the taste...

It's Ray. Oh Good Lord.

A kiss.


	13. ego dilecto meo et dilectus meus mihi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beloved.

At first the kiss is desperate, hard, but when my mouth opens he relaxes into it, and his tongue slides over mine, so softly, no violence or plunder at all. Despite the taste I find myself caressing it with my own mouth, feel my own tongue glide over his, past teeth. Our tongues dance, slick slide over and under each other, roll and undulate. Nobody bites. 

Without even thinking about it I'm falling alongside him, in a long slow motion, easing down onto his couch. Face, torso, we're conjoined. My legs are still kneeling by the side of the couch, and he makes a frustrated grunt, hooks his arm around my hips, and hoists me up, pulls me fully next to him. Even with my eyes closed I am aware of every inch of him. One of my legs moves of its own accord, and somehow I've pinned his lower body to the cushions. He urges himself up against me, and I feel it, his... reaction to me. My reaction to him. Panic rises. It hits me hard. I shouldn't be doing this... not yet, not with him the way he is. I'm being a bastard again, an abuser again... I'm going to hurt him like I hurt her... I pull back, or try to, but... one arm is wrapped around my top half, hand cupping my head, fingers clutching my hair. The other arm is around my waist, hand tugging at my belt, fingers nudging beneath the fabric of my trousers. He keeps pushing up against me, and I can't help it, I don't want to help it, I'm pushing back. I won't do anything though, nothing to hurt him. I'll stop this... stop it soon, in just... just a moment longer. He's wiry, and his edgy energy is pouring out through his fingers, and it doesn't seem that I'll ever move from his side again, ever want to move again...

Energy through his fingers...

I pull myself back, and see it on his face. He's in a trance, blissed out, and his body is pouring out healing again. He's golden. He's glowing golden. The warmth I'm feeling is his light, his heat being shared. Maybe it's the shock of everything that he's remembered, is going to remember, maybe it's the drink, maybe it's because he senses on some level that my injuries are not completely healed. But he's glowing, and... he can't switch it on, he can't switch it off. I have to get away from him, break the connection.

I wrench myself backward, break our embrace, and stumble to my feet.

“Fraser?” He's looking up at me, his light fading, with a hurt expression. It kills me that I made him look like that.

“Ray... I...”

“No, I know, I understand. You don't want me.”

“I don't... Ray, good Lord... Ray, of course I want you.”

“So, so why...?”

“Because,” and I kneel next to him again, and cautiously lay my hand on his cheek. “Because you're drunk, beloved,” (and the word is out as a blessing without my ever having thought it.) “When we do this, and I so want to do this, I want to know that you really want it too.”

“I do. I do really want...”

“But wait,” I whisper, and lift his hand, kiss his finger tips. They're still warm, but the golden glow has faded. He's safe again. “Wait, just a little while. We'll have time for this. We'll make time for this. We'll do it right.”

He curls up on the sofa, pulls his knees up to his chest, foetal. He's still looking miserable, blurred out and hurt. I risk it, and move my face in for a kiss. Not for passion, though I'm still trembling all over, but in gratitude for his tenderness.

Love. In gratitude for his love.

It's a softer kiss, lips only, and I realise I've never had a kiss like that before. A kiss on the lips that wants, that speaks of love, but makes no demands. If he wasn't drunk I'd keep kissing him, until one or both of us surrendered, but I move my head back, enough to break our contact, and look at him, both of us breathing heavily. I reach out with my thumb, and stroke his face. “Just sleep,” I tell him. “Everything is going to be all right. We'll talk about everything in the morning.”

He looks at me, and it's such an ache in my heart. My wounded Ray, always trying to heal everyone but himself. I sit on the floor next to him, while he remains curled around himself, and I take hold of his hand. A memory rises, and I accept it with gratitude. In it, I am somewhere dark, but he is holding my hand. He holds my hand and the lonely goes away. 

I return the favour. I sit next to him, holding his hand, and watch him as he just lets go, as he releases himself in long slow tears, and cries himself to sleep.

Oh, Ray. My Ray. Beloved. Tomorrow will be a better day.


End file.
